


The Good Son

by sojourney



Series: Triskellion Series [1]
Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:44:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 12,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sojourney/pseuds/sojourney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of interludes during Death the Kid's childhood, the bond between father and son, and how Shinigami has learned to cope with his son's eccentricities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Progeny

**Author's Note:**

> "Until you have a son of your own... you will never know the joy, the love beyond feeling that resonates in the heart of a father as he looks upon his son. You will never know the sense of honor that makes a man want to be more than he is and to pass something good and hopeful into the hands of his son. And you will never know the heartbreak of the fathers who are haunted by the personal demons that keep them from being the men they want their sons to be." **~Kent Nerburn**

* * *

Spirit had been floating on air since the announcement, doing all the toasting and gifting associated with expected fatherhood. He had been in the midst of buying the pub another round (which his wife had reluctantly approved, provided there were no other women present) when he received word that the Reaper wanted to see him. So he found himself walking the long guillotine path with a spring in his step and a jaunty whistled tune as he dialed on the mirror.

"Yo, yo, whassap?" the death god greeted, though in a fraction of his usual volume as he appeared in the reflection, beckoning Spirit to enter. As the man stepped through, he was further surprised to see that the Reaper's typical buoyant bounce had also been drastically reduced. He was about to ask what was wrong, what dire circumstance had brought the normally exuberant Reaper to a state of restraint, when he finally noticed what the massive white hands were cradling, nearly hidden in their blocky grasp.

Peeking out from a grey blanket was a tiny face, eyes closed in a peaceful sleep. A male infant, his dark crown of hair marred by three distinct white lines encircling the left side, though they ended as abruptly as though they'd been cut.

Spirit's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. Where had the Reaper gotten a _baby_ of all things from? A thousand ideas — shamefully, though he'd never admit it, not all of them were complimentary — flew through his mind. "What-" he began, floundering for a phrasing that wouldn't sound like an accusation. "Where'd- _how_ did..."

"Isn't he adorable?" the shinigami gushed, oblivious to the redhead's consternation. "Just perfect."

"Sir," Spirit tried again, then gulped as the question came out in a rush, expecting a shinigami chop in response. "Where-did-you-get-a-child-and-whose-is-it?"

He got one, but it was gentle. The Reaper somehow managed to convey a disapproving look through his mask and answered, "He's mine, of course." He used one blocky finger to adjust the blanket wrapped around the infant as Spirit was picking his jaw up off the Death Room floor. The Death Scythe had to admit, it wasn't the most incredulous thing he'd seen... but it was close.

"Yours, uh, and...?" the redhead hedged. "And what's his name?"

The god chuckled and waved his hand, careful not to jostle the child. "Just mine, Spirit. And his name is Death. Death the Kid."


	2. Quirks

* * *

"Kid, where are you?" the Reaper called cheerfully, using his massive hands to lift the couch entirely off the floor and peering in the space beneath. He'd tried to childproof Gallows Mansion by putting away some of the more obvious dangers (he couldn't remember when he'd acquired so many ornamental scythes) but his son was so _tiny_ and he worried all the time about something falling, or latching, or any other potentially harmful situation. The boy was just over a year old and already developing far ahead of human children, and while Shinigami delighted in his son toddling up and down the hallways energetically, he couldn't completely banish the fear that he would look away for a few seconds too long and something would happen.

When he finally found the boy hiding behind the heavy black curtains, his face red and puffy and his cheeks still tear-stained, he couldn't squelch the pang of fear that something _had_ happened. "Kid?" he asked again, crouching next to his son. "What's the matter? Are you all right?"

"It's wrong," the toddler whimpered, pointing a finger at an abstract metal sculpture sitting innocuously in a recessed shelf on the far wall. Shinigami had picked it up in San Francisco about 20 years ago, when he'd been mirror-shopping. He loved it's quirkiness, the off-kilter colours that he felt represented him well.

"How do you mean?" he prompted gently. "Wrong how?"

Kid trembled and hid his face in the Reaper's black shroud. "I dunno," he cried. "I dunno."

The statue was put out in the trash the next morning; quirky wasn't worth his son's tears.


	3. Legumes

* * *

Shinigami watched his son slowly count the peas on his plate, mouth working over each number. At three years old, he knew it wasn't practice; Kid was well beyond simple math skills and already into learning things done by children twice his age. Yet he was counting with intense concentration, a tiny inverted point between his brows. When he finished he shut his eyes tightly, a low moan escaping him. "What is it?" he said, moved by his son's obvious distress.

"There's... only... eighty-nine of them," Kid's voice hitched.

"Kid," the death god said reasonably. "You don't even _like_ peas." Truth be told, he'd given Kid a smaller helping than usual tonight, because starting three weeks prior Kid had started refusing to eat kernel corn, which he loved. When pressed, Kid had declared that he wouldn't eat them because they weren't _round_. Peas therefore became the vegetable of choice, even though his son made a face at every mouthful and sometimes forgot to hide it.

Every day was a challenge to try and strike the right balance between parental and indulgent; he was, after all, new at this. The memories of his own parent - the previous Grim Reaper - were vague and punctuated by uneasy fear. His predecessor had been terrifying, almost gleeful in his duty. Shinigami had never wanted to be like that.

Kid's quavering voice pulled his attention back to the present. "I c-can't figure out how many piles there should be," he hiccuped. His fork chased the peas around the plate, but his vision was blurring with tears. "W-What's wrong with me? Why can't I even make a good pile? Father, I'm bad, aren't I?"

"No you're not," the god said swiftly, deeply and thoroughly unsettled. He transferred eleven of his own peas onto his son's plate. "I accidentally gave you wrong amount, Kid. It wasn't anything you did, it was my fault."

The child's face slowly brightened, as he began dividing the peas into two piles of fifty, followed by four piles of twenty-five, followed by ten piles of ten. By the time he was done they must've been colder than the grave, but Kid ate every one of them with a contented smile and looked to his father for praise. "Good boy," Shinigami said, patting the boy on the head and rewarding him with a perfectly square piece of brownie.


	4. Contrast

* * *

"Spirit," the Reaper said, sounding oddly subdued. "Can I ask you about your daughter?"

"Of course!" the Death Scythe beamed, digging into his jacket pocket for the latest pictures; he never carried ones more than a week old. There was a silly grin on his face as he began pointing out Maka's new outfit, but faltered when he realized his companion wasn't participating. "Sir?"

"Does Maka ever seem odd to you?" Shinigami questioned.

Spirit looked affronted. "Maka is perfect in every way!" he defended. "Everything from her pigtails to her adorable toes!" A beat, and then he cautiously added, "Why? Is something wrong?"

"I'm not sure," hedged the death god. "Kid does some strange things. Little things," he added hurriedly. "They're not really significant. I was just wondering about them."

The weapon looked thoughtful. "What kind of things?"

Shinigami bounced in place, thinking. "He counts a lot. Everything, actually. He likes things to have round numbers. And he's very... neat. He doesn't like when things aren't neat, it upsets him." He felt like he was missing something very crucial, but elusive. It felt wrong to say that Kid was often in tears, for despite being the god of death, he was afraid that people would think of him as a bad parent, incapable of raising his son. And if someone were to try and take Kid away... Shinigami scowled behind his mask. _They had better hope for a long life, for Death will be waiting with a grudge._

But Spirit was chuckling. "So he's got an A-type personality. That's nothing to be concerned about. It might be a little strange if he started cleaning up after you, but I can't see how it'd be problematic."

Shinigami wanted to be reassured, but he felt like the problem ran deeper than that. It was like he couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was _something_ there. Yet he gave a little chuckle and bobbed his head at Spirit. "You're probably right," he said. "I'm sure Kid is just fine. He's a good boy."


	5. Stormfront

Shinigami stood in the entranceway of Gallows Mansion, large hand paused above where the umbrella stand should have been. It was curiously missing and the Reaper's umbrella was now dripping onto the white tile floor with no place to dry. Perhaps he should have come home via the mirror after all.

"Kid?" he called, leaning the item against the wall instead and bopping down the hallway. He doubted Kid was asleep, he rarely left the manor and almost always greeted his father at the door. With the storm was raging loudly outside, Shinigami found his son in the library with no less than a few hundred books spread around him. "Kid!" the Reaper exclaimed, dismayed. "What are you doing?"

The boy looked up, blinking golden eyes at his parent. "Hello Father," he said earnestly. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come home. Your books were out of order so I'm fixing them."

"They were alphabetical," Shinigami protested, completely dismayed at his son's latest quirk but trying hard not to show it. "What's wrong with that?"

Disdainfully, Kid answered, "I'm organizing them by size and genre as well. And maybe print date," he added, tilting his head in consideration. "I might redo them again for that."

"That's not necess-" the Reaper began, but Kid shook his head vehemently. Since Shinigami could live with a properly graduated book sizes in his library, he dropped the reprimand and instead glided across the floor and sank into the oversize chair by the fireplace with a sigh. "Where is the umbrella stand from the front hall?"

Kid quivered, his fingers tapping on the cover of the book he was holding. "I got rid of it," he said. "It was... it didn't match anything."

Shinigami beckoned, and Kid came obediently to his side. "It doesn't need to match anything. Where did you put it?"

"But it was uneven," the child whined, peeking at his father through his bangs; the stark white lines in his hair shifted with the movement.

Summoning his patience, the Reaper explained gently, "It was a gift, Kid. From some of the students at Shibusen. The way it looked wasn't why it was important. Do you understand?"

Kid trembled, his eyes darting back and forth. "But... but... it was _lumpy_ ," he insisted.

"Well," Shinigami sighed again, too tired to argue. "Lumpy or not, I'd rather have it back. Did you put it away?" At the complete silence he received, he prompted sternly, "Kid, what did you do with the umbrella stand?"

"I'm sorry!" Kid wailed, throwing himself at the base of the chair. "I hated it! I couldn't look at it!" He lifted his head to look at his father, tears running down his cheeks. "I'm awful, but please don't hate me! Please.. please don't get rid of me..."

And Shinigami knew he'd been right all along: there _was_ something wrong, something he'd missed all this time, and it was finally making itself known - now if only it would make _sense_. Deeply chilled by the revelation, he lifted Kid from the floor and held him tightly. "Of course I don't hate you. I would never hate you, Kid. Please calm down, it isn't... it's not that important. There's a good boy..."

It seemed like forever before the sobs finally stopped, but even after they had, Shinigami didn't let him go. Instead he sat thinking, surrounded by a mountain of still-unsorted books that he'd need to put away so Kid wasn't troubled all over again. Looking back, he realized that the boy had always displayed this _tendancy_ and now everything: the counting, the neatness, the meticulous habits even at a young age... it added up. It wasn't a _flaw_ ; Shinigami would swiftly and fiercely chop anyone who suggested his son was flawed, but it was still something.

When the first rays of dawn chased the last of the storm clouds away, Shinigami carried his son up to his room and put him to bed. The most he ever found of the missing umbrella stand was a few shards in the back garden, and he replaced it with something plain and matte black.


	6. Barter

Shinigami had almost forgotten his son's presence, he was sitting so quietly on the floor next to the mirror in the Death Room. Kid had begged to come and be allowed to participate in his father's work, and promised to stay out of the way as Shinigami's most trusted group of weapons and meisters bustled around, trying to anticipate the next move by a trio of witches terrorizing the East Coast. Teams had been dispatched and all that was left was to wait for them to arrive. The god stole a moment to fold his tall frame down next to the boy. Seeing the pensive expression on the boy's face, he prompted, "What are you thinking about?"

"She's only wearing one eye patch," Kid twitched, looking at Marie.

The Reaper sighed a bit. "If she wore two, she wouldn't be able to see at all, would she?" he pointed out. "Kid, are you sure you don't want to be at home instead?"

Kid shook his head. "I want to be here with you, Father," he said earnestly. "All these people listen to you, don't they?"

Shinigami was about to answer when a shadow fell over them, and Kid's expression puckered into something between alarm and disgust. Stein was leaning against the mirror, a lit cigarette dangling loosely from his lips, looking down at them with a sly smile. "Hello little Reaper," he purred, and Shinigami didn't like the eager gleam in his eye. Stein's experience and skill made him invaluable, but some of his habits... well, he remembered the tales Spirit had recounted.

"Hello," Kid replied, still glaring at Stein. His eyes traced over the crooked zigzags on his shirt and shivered just slightly.

Stein's grin widened and he reached up to spin the screw in his head, its gear teeth clicking. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

Yellow eyes darted between the meister and his father, and Kid raised his narrow face up to Stein boldly. "Father's work is important. You should pay more attention to it." A pause, and then plaintively, "You're horribly uneven. May I fix you please?"

"Depends," Stein said silkily, spinning a scalpel that had appeared from nowhere. "Would you exchange that for a couple hours in my lab?"

"Yes!" Kid looked relieved at being granted permission and reached for one-sided row of buttons.

" _No,_ " Shinigami intercepted quickly, sending Stein away with a quick chop and patting Kid atop the head. "Now Kid, you'll just have to live without that, I'm afraid." The boy risked a sulk, though it didn't last long as Azusa announced that the teams were engaging the witch trio. Despite his best efforts, Shinigami couldn't completely focus on the mission at hand.

After the crisis was averted and the corrupted witch souls reaped, the death god pulled Stein aside and informed him cheerfully that his son was off-limits for dissection, and that to ever again imply otherwise would be very, very unwise.


	7. Signature

It was obvious that something had been bothering Kid for several days now. He was in a constant state of anxious agitation, and when Shinigami had tried to engage him in conversation over breakfast, Kid's responses had been distracted and monosyllabic. He'd spent most of the time in his room and though the Reaper had never given a second thought to leaving him at Gallows Mansion alone, he couldn't shake the feeling that something  _problematic_  was going on right under his nose. Throughout the day he found himself checking the perimeter of the city (and his soul) but nothing registered.

Still, he thought it couldn't hurt to take a look into the manor through one of his mirrors.  _Just a quick peek,_  he told himself, thinking that the reassuringly neat rooms would put his mind at ease - just like it did for Kid.

So when he saw the complete bedlam through a broken mirror's surface, he nearly panicked.

Candles were dislodged from their holders, paintings crooked on the wall. The mirror's surface did not yield for him: shinigami were unable to travel through a broken mirror, only a complete one. A hundred frightening scenarios raced through his mind as he called up the rest of the house's portals, finally getting one in the library which seemed untouched and lunging through it. "Kid! Where are you?"

He found the boy huddled on the floor in the bathroom, surrounded by chunks of dark hair and splashes of black liquid across every surface. Kid was grasping his bangs with one hand and a pair of wicked shears in the other, thin body wracked with sobs as he desperately tried to line up the scissors with the white lines in his hair.

" _ **Kid!**_ "

Shinigami grabbed his son before he could make another swipe with the blades, separating them as the scissors went skittering across the floor. His hand closed all the way around Kid's body like a restraint, making the boy kick wildly as he fought the hold. His breath came in short, frenzied gasps. He was hyperventilating; Shinigami could feel the boy's heart hammering beneath his fingers.

" _No!_  Let me have it back! I have to get rid of them!" Kid writhed, but there was no way he could break the iron grip that pinned his arms to his side. "I must... I have to... Father,  _please_..."

Eventually he went limp, and Shinigami realized that  _his_  heart was still pounding, though for altogether different reasons than Kid's had been. Fear was not often an emotion he experienced. Worry, and certainly apprehension, but fear was something he usually  _caused_ , not faced. Yet seeing the cuts on his son's hands, realizing that had he not checked the mirrors at that very moment... Shinigami knew fear, and knew it too well for comfort.

When the only sound in the room was the steady  _drip-drip_  of liquid - hair dye, he now identified - leaking onto the white tiles, the death god gently unwound his fingers from the boy's form and set him carefully on the floor. Kid wasn't unconscious, the occasional hitch of breath and the quavering ripples across his soul told him so. But his son's head stayed bowed, the slashed mess of his hair hanging sadly askew, hiding his eyes.

He wanted so badly to ask  _what the hell were you thinking_... but he folded himself down next to Kid and put one arm around his shoulder, leaning Kid against him. "Rough day?" he asked instead.

A noise between a laugh and a whimper escaped Kid's mouth, but he still didn't raise his head. Small fingers found the trailing edge of the black shroud and wound into it. "I'm hideous, Father," he mumbled. "These stripes, they're only on  _one side_. I tried... to cover them up, but it didn't work. They stayed. They  _stayed_."

"You're a god, Kid. You're not human. Your body is designed to reject certain things." He hadn't actually realized that it would balk at something as plain as hair dye and filed that information away for later. Better to let Kid believe everything was under control. Better for _him_  to believe everything was under control.

"I'm not even a proper shinigami," Kid choked and rubbed his sleeve across his face. "I can't even fix  _myself_ , how can I be a good son for you when I'm so unbalanced, can't even  _stay neat_  or-"

Anticipating a full breakdown being imminent, Shinigami tightened the hold on his son slightly, checking the distance of the scissors, but he seemed to have forgotten their existence. "...  _trash_ ," Kid was saying. "Not fit to-"

"Don't you trust me?" the Reaper interrupted.

The question seemed to jar Kid from his self-loathing and his head finally came up. His face was pinched and pale, red circles around his yellow irises. "O-Of course I do..."

"The Lines of Sanzu are the mark of a death god, Kid. They belong on you because I  _put_  them there. Because you're my son, and the next Reaper. They're only half stripes because..." Shinigami paused, weighing his words. "Because you're still young, that's all. I don't want you to get so upset about them. I certainly," he touched the knicks in the boy's skin, "don't want you hurting yourself over them. Besides, I think they're cute."

Kid made a strangled noise; Shinigami chuckled and hugged the boy tighter. "So... do you think you can learn to tolerate them, as a gift from me?"

The subsequent silence almost made him hold his breath, but eventually Kid swallowed and said meekly, "Yes Father. I-I'm sorry for disrespecting you like that. I didn't... my actions weren't very..." His face screwed up. "They're not really  _cute_  though!"

"Perfectly cute. Just like the rest of you." Shinigami patted him on the head and shooed Kid away, waving off the protestations that he should clean up his own mess. This time at least, the Reaper would not mind the tasks of replacing the mirrors. It kept his hands busy, though his mind was far from the work at hand.

_I didn't lie to him,_  he told himself.  _There's just more truth to it, for another time. A later time, when he's ready to hear it. Just... not now._

That time seemed farther away than ever.


	8. Vocation

"Father," Kid called, as he walked down the long guillotine corridor. The surface of the mirror rippled and yielded obligingly to him, and he savored the brief immersion in his father's soul before emerging into the Death Room. The circular platform was empty, and Kid took a seat in the tall-backed chair to wait. He remembered fondly the first time he'd been able to touch the floor with his toes while sitting; now his feet rested firmly on it. He might have only been young still, but he thought he'd grown up a lot.

Shinigami came gliding through the stick-like grave markers, but Kid could detect the tiredness in his movements. There had been an influx of witch activity in the last few weeks. A small community in Texas and its population of seven hundred had been under attack by a coven of witches, who were experimenting with injecting demonic energy directly into people's souls under the guise of free vaccinations. By the time Shibusen had realized what had been happening, they'd nearly lost the entire town of Agua Dulce. As it was, each soul had to be examined and the purged of the artificial taint, and the tedious and delicate process had kept Shinigami glued to his mirrors even though the on-site teams were able to work in shifts.

"Father," Kid said again as the Reaper wearily ascended the platform. "You should rest. We can continue my lessons tomorrow."

"I will soon, soon," Shinigami waved off the protest and putting as much of his usual energy into his voice as he could muster. "You've been doing so well that I don't want to distract you. Or," he said, leaning over and ruffling Kid's hair, "was that the point?"

"My point," was the emphatic reply, even as Kid made a face and tried to comb his hair back into its usual neatness, "is that you should take care of yourself."

Though Kid knew the importance of Shibusen and its tasks and respected his father's dedication to it, he also knew that he was the only one who witnessed the toll it took upon the Reaper. To be unable to leave Death City's confines, but be forced to remotely supervise the students and teams he sent out on dangerous missions... the jovial demeanor served more than one purpose. Sometimes Kid found himself resenting Shibusen, if only because it demanded more of Shinigami than he wanted to part with. To everyone else, the god was simply Lord Death, not a parent.

But he did not deny that he was looking forward to the lesson.

"Now where were we?" Shinigami pondered aloud. "Ah yes, taking souls  _in konso_."

Ever since Kid's tendencies had escalated to the point of needing to "fix" strangers as they walked down the street, the Reaper had decided it was time to give the boy some focus. Although Kid was ingrained with certain knowledge natural to a shinigami, he still had much more to learn and it helped him to talk things out. Humans studied souls and called it  _phasmology_  - in fact it was part of Shibusen's curriculum - but for himself and for Kid it was not an abstract theory, but a practical application.

A death god's purpose was to maintain the balance and order between life and death, and he supposed it  _could_  manifest in the counting and the symmetry. Shinigami hoped that giving Kid a reasonable framework for those feelings might in turn keep them under control. And Kid, desperate to understand the compulsions that came over him and dictated his life, was finding solace in his father's explanations of judgment and balance. It calmed him, and he drank it up.

"Souls must be safeguarded at all costs," Kid recited, ticking off the tenets on his fingers. "The balance of souls, living and dead, must not overwhelm either the earth or the afterlife. All souls have a place to travel to, whether the body knows it or not. Souls which have turned into Kishin eggs have forfeited their ability to pass on."

There were more, but Kid remembered best the ones that dealt with the dangers of disproportionately allocated souls.  _It only made sense_ , he thought.  _When things aren't neat and even, there are problems._  By the time he'd finished reciting them all and looked to his father for approval, all the tension had completely drained from Kid's form. He sat contentedly on the platform's edge, staring out over the sandy grave markers which normally caused him consternation due to their irregular placings.

And Shinigami, who had been about to interject that their business of souls was more than just keeping to the letter of those laws, merely sat down next to him, and decided not take the peace for granted.


	9. Benefit

The idea of introducing Kid to a weapon had been percolating around Shinigami's head for a few months now, about the same time that Kid had really taken an interest in learning combat techniques. It was an interesting conundrum: his fastidious, meticulous son was an exceptional fighter, surprisingly so given his slight form and young age. Granted, he was a shinigami being trained by human meisters, but nonetheless the Reaper was not-so-secretly pleased with the progress being reported by his aides.

However as a shinigami, Kid had no actual  _need_  of a weapon to battle witches and Kishin eggs. Eventually he would need a Death Scythe of his own, but that was still a long way off. He was already well on his way to becoming fluent in a type of martial arts specific to shinigami: death god martial arts, and drew upon his own soul to form both shields and weapons. If he were to add an  _actual_  Weapon to that...

Shinigami admitted that the ability to battle was of a secondary benefit; selfishly, he'd hoped that Kid would continue to stay at home until he was older, but now that he was becoming capable of defending himself it would only be a matter of time before he wanted to hunt down witches by himself. The real reason he wanted Kid to get to know a weapon was for the friendship he hoped it would provide. He was a new parent, but he was no fool: he knew Kid was often lonely in the many hours he spent at home, and though Shinigami didn't worry about the day to day management of Gallows Mansion, he did think that his son needed someone to challenge him. At Shibusen, nearly all of his students formed strong bonds and attachments to their partners and he wanted Kid to be able to participate in that.

Enlisting Spirit's help, however, might have been a poor judgment call.

"This is an excellent idea!" the Death Scythe said eagerly, holding up a picture of a young blond girl with a shy smile. "How about this one? She's a chakram, isn't that nice and refined? Kid needs someone pretty. Bubbly, maybe."

"Kid is only nine," the Reaper said dubiously. "I think he's too young to base who he meets on that kind of... attribute."

"He doesn't  _act_  like a nine year old," Spirit pointed out, but gulped at the hard look he got in return. "All I meant was that he's very serious for his age! Very mature! A real respectable boy!" he hastily ad-libbed until the glare was lifted.

_He's **too**  serious,_ Shinigami thought worriedly, once he'd chased Spirit out of the Death Room and taken some time to ponder.  _But what can I do?_


	10. Companion

If there was one sight that never failed to amuse the Reaper, it was priceless expressions of the shopkeepers in Death City when the occasion rose for him to enter one of their establishments. Their eyes would betray their feelings as they tried to overcome fear with the respect he was owed. Truthfully, Shinigami was happy when people didn't simply flee in terror from him. A few scant decades of his playful persona hadn't yet been enough to overcome humanity's deep-rooted aversion to death, even if they happened to share the same city with him. His own actions of centuries past probably hadn't helped that perception.

But it couldn't hurt to try and put them at ease. "Hello, hello!" he waved cheerfully, hoping it would put a little colour back in the man's cheeks. "Kid, say hello."

"Hello," Kid echoed, stepping in beside him. His golden eyes were roving over the tall shelves, silently taking everything in, and the god thought it was a sign that Kid really needed to get out of Gallows Mansion more often. Shinigami had often reminded him that he was free to explore the city - it all fell within the boundaries of his soul and so he could keep an eye on him - and yet the boy rarely ventured out. Perhaps this would change things, he hoped.

"W-What an honour..." the man stammered. "H-How can I help you, Lord Death?"

"We're looking for a pet, and conveniently this is a pet store," Shinigami informed him energetically. He leaned over, raising one giant hand as though to impart a secret. "Something friendly would be best. My son's never had a pet before."

Relief was palpable and the store owner looked curiously at Kid as though seeing him for the first time; Kid, on the other hand, gave his father a chagrined look. "Father, please. I can hear you," he protested.

"You've certainly come to the right place," the man enthused, leaping into his sales pitch in order to prevent too much thought into the fact that two death gods (even if one was scrawny and unimpressive) were shopping in his store. "We've got the friendliest, cleanest pets in Nevada. What did you have in mind? A bird, or a turtle? Maybe even a cat or dog? We've got a nice litter of collie pups that are looking for a good home."

Shinigami turned to ask if any of those sounded appealing, but there was a notable lack of Kid in the spot where he'd been standing moments before. A quick scout of the aisles and they located Kid standing in front of a shelf of bottled fish flakes, arranging them deftly into some coordination that only he understood. "Kid," the Reaper said, sounding put out. "You don't have to do that."

"Yes I do," was the quick reply, slender fingers straightening each bottle so the labels were facing out exactly at the same angle. "This will only take a moment, Father. I'll be right there."

The shopkeeper was staring, mouth hanging open slightly. When he realized that Shinigami was looking at him expectantly, his jaw snapped shut audibly. "A-Ah, as I was saying," he said. "Perhaps something smaller, like a rabbit? Or fish, if he likes the idea of fish-"

"No," Kid interrupted. "Fixing the aquarium supplies doesn't mean I want fish, it just means they weren't neat."

"No fish," Shinigami confirmed, saluting.

"No fish," the man hastily agreed. He looked desperate to come up with another suggestion. "A-Ah, what about-"

Shinigami held up a hand, interrupting and sparing him any more awkwardness. Instead he and Kid wandered the aisles together. The death god wasn't sure how well this would go over, and it quickly became evident that the answer was: not well. "This rabbit's ears are different lengths," the younger god stated flatly, giving the aforementioned creature a scowling glare so fierce that it burrowed under the straw. "And that puppy has an uneven number of spots. Father," Kid said conversationally, "there's something wrong with all these animals. Does the owner of this place know that his wares are defective?"

Defective. The word hung there like an ugly stain.

The problem isn't with the animals, Shinigami thought, but did not voice the sentiment aloud. Immediately he felt guilty for even having such an observation, because it was easier and more welcome to think that there was just something he'd missed than to believe that Kid was getting... worse.

"Kid," he began, only to find that the boy had once again disappeared from his side.

This time the Reaper found him crouched in front of a pen full of kittens. He kept reaching through the bars and whatever he was doing, it eventually earned him a nip on the fingers. "Ow!" Kid stuck the tip of his finger in his mouth, and Shinigami would've chuckled at the normalcy of the gesture if he hadn't already been so concerned. "It's got one more whisker on the left than on the right! I was just trying to fix it!" Kid huffed, crossing his arms.

Shinigami placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "I think that's enough for today," he said gently. "Let's go home."

The walk back to Gallows Mansion was mostly silent, until the Reaper tried cautiously, "Kid, this symmetry of yours... there are going to be times when you can't apply it to everyone and everything, like that cat. That wasn't- you could've hurt it."

"I wouldn't," the child answered swiftly, wounded that his father had even suggested such a thing. "I was only going to make it balanced! If it were symmetrical, it would be a much happier cat, I'm sure of it. Because everything in the world needs to be balanced, to keep order. Isn't that right, Father?"

Shinigami knew he had to put a stop to this quirk before the behaviour got much more out of control. He drew himself up, determined to be gentle but firm. Kid never disobeyed him, all Shinigami needed to do was make it an order and that could be the end of it. No more counting the same set of dishes for hours, no more possessions missing from the house because they'd had some kind of indelible flaw which only Kid could see. No more worry that something minuscule had caused Kid to have a nervous breakdown or left him sobbing in the corner over his perceived inadequacies.

But that would be admitting that there was something wrong. That he didn't appreciate Kid for who he was. That he was flawed.

And he did not want to see the look that would come over Kid if he believed, even for a second, that Shinigami didn't love him as he was, quirks and all. Not sure if the damning feeling which gripped him was meant for himself or the boy, Shinigami nonetheless answered, "Yes, Kid. Keeping things in order... is very important."

Just not as important as his son.


	11. Euphoria

He would give this murderer credit for bald-faced courage, to bring his depraved art to the streets and dark alleys of Death City itself, the Reaper's own domain. Three young girls, barely teens, flayed alive before a slip of Soul Protect gave away the location of the fourth. Shinigami had given his vow that the madman would be hunted and taken down, but he could not help the broken young student whose cousin lay among the dead... nor could he remain unmoved by the sight of the monster about to devour another innocent human soul.

"Incoming!" Spirit's voice emanated from the blade, a flash of his red hair in the shine of metal as they descended on the ghoul. At the last second it leaped sideways over the victim's remains, passed through the brick, and leered at them through the building's window before bounding off. The scythe gave an angry yell. "No wonder we couldn't find him! The bastard moves through walls!"

"It won't save him," Shinigami's voice was menacing, contrasting with the careful and deliberate movements he was making. The girl's soul bobbed in place above the body, its weak light pulsing over the spreading stain of blood. It wouldn't last long, damaged as it was... he didn't risk taking it in konso when it could disintegrate at any moment and therefore be lost instead of passing safely to whatever afterlife it was destined for. The Reaper had just cupped his large hands around the trembling blue orb when another scream ripped through the air.

Inside the blade, Spirit's image twisted towards the sound. "He's found someone else!"

Father, Kid's voice came whispering from a sliver of black nearby and then the youth stepped into the alley having traveled, as all shinigami could, through shadow. "Please allow me to care for it. I'll keep it safe until your return."

The Reaper could spare only an instant to consider before he placed the soul in Kid's cupped hands, then coiled and vaulted over the building with Spirit firmly in hand, leaving his son alone with the fragile soul. They found the ghoul just outside the Deathbucks having cornered an employee who was working late, and Shinigami felt no small relief when the blade's edge schlicked right through. The woman ran away screaming, but at least Shinigami knew she was all right.

"Enjoy it," he said to Spirit, as the Death Scythe resumed human form and took the red soul by the tail. He left the man there and sped through the alleys until he came back to where he'd left his son.

Kid was still standing in the same spot as before, his yellow eyes half-mast with serene contentment. "Look Father," the young shinigami said wonderingly. It was the happiest and calmest that he'd been in weeks. "It's perfect. Simply perfect. See how symmetrical she is? How precisely balanced? I never realized just how beautiful..."

Only then did Shinigami realize that the girl's mangled corpse still lay messily on the pavement and felt the automatic urge to shield Kid from such a sight - then he realized that there was no way Kid hadn't noticed, but that he simply hadn't reacted to it. Instead he'd focused his entire being on the symmetry of a human soul to the point of ignoring everything else around him. There was such a disconnect that it struck Shinigami momentarily mute.

What else will be ignored while he focuses on things that are proportional? What if it becomes more consuming than it already is? Then, a much more numbing thought: What happens if this becomes all that he knows?

"Thank you Kid," Shinigami heard himself saying as the glowing orb was turned over to him with utmost care and respect. "I'll take it from here."


	12. Judgment

Shinigami supposed he shouldn't have been surprised when, not long after the questionable visit to the pet store, that Kid came bounding into the Death Room clutching an item crafted entirely of his soul. It was a substantial advancement from the blocking shields he used when fighting, which would dissipate to mist and shadows if they became separated from him. He  _was_  admittedly surprised when he saw it had taken the shape of a  _skateboard_  of all things - something he wouldn't have pictured his book-inclined, reclusive son to enjoy.

"I'm proud of you!" he enthused, patting Kid on the head as the boy beamed. "But before you go rolling off, could you help me with something?"

"Of course," Kid said earnestly as the skateboard evaporated back into the ether. "What is it, Father?"

"One of the recent missions returned something in~ter~esting," Shinigami glided lightly over to his usual place. Kid trailed along behind him obediently, but froze when his father produced a sphere, glowing an unearthly crimson.

"A Kishin egg!" the boy exclaimed, immediately tensing as though he expected its owner to be in the immediate vicinity as well. When nothing intruded upon the Death Room, he slowly relaxed until curiosity overwhelmed his wariness. "I don't understand, Father. Why have they brought this back to you?"

Shinigami offered it to the boy, letting him hold it and knowing that his soul was resistant to the trace amounts of madness that clung to it still. Kid turned the orb over and over in his hands like a particularly difficult puzzle, working some silent mantra until his tongue was stuck in the corner of his mouth and the Reaper had to consciously restrain himself from pointing out how adorable he looked.

"It doesn't feel right," Kid said finally, lifting it to test the weight. "It's... different, on the inside."

Shinigami bobbed his head approvingly. "Good, good! Watch carefully." With the utmost care, he peeled the surface the sphere to show a blue inside. "What do you think of that?"

"I thought souls that became Kishin eggs were turned completely..." Confused, Kid looked up at his father for clarification. "So what happens to this soul?"

"Usually they are," Shinigami agreed. "What would  _you_  do with it, Kid?"

Golden eyes lowered back to the soul, studying it intently. Minutes ticked by while Kid considered the request. A Kishin egg that was not infected all the way to its core? What kind of situation could've caused this, and had this soul really forfeited its right to pass on? The young shinigami knew that this was a test of sorts, and he didn't want to disappoint his father... that would be a worse result than an error in his choice. Shinigami waited patiently, until Kid finally looked up at him. His steady gaze belied the confidence with which he replied, "I would let is pass on, Father."

"Is that right?"

Kid took a deep breath and released it slowly, his words precise and carefully weighted. "Kishin eggs are souls that have been completely corrupted. Human souls... we know they change. It's like a fruit, isn't it? Sometimes the skin has been bruised, or damaged but... it's still good. I think this soul is like that." He hesitated, then nodded to himself. "I would let it pass on."

Shinigami pressed his blocky hands together. "I'm proud of you Kid," he said for the second time, and meant it just as genuinely. "These cases, though they might be rare, are left in our hands. These are  _our_  judgments, and it is our ability to offer them persecution... or mercy."

The boy watched him in admiration and esteem, and Shinigami hoped his own judgment wasn't flawed, because Kid looked up to him so much that he couldn't bear to lead him astray.


	13. Priority

His angry roar shook Death City from the spires of Shibusen down to the sewers.

But his next words were spoken with a frightening calm, made the air in the Death Room crackle with power as Shinigami issued a simple order to his best team: "Bring back my son."

Kid had asked - pleaded,  _begged_  - to be allowed to visit a butterfly conservatory in California and while Shinigami would've preferred that he stuck a little closer to home for his excursions, he couldn't prune the newfound excitement that the boy showed when he'd gotten Beelzebub to  _fly_  instead of just roll. Suddenly Kid was showing interest in things outside of Death City and besides, an arboretum seemed harmless enough.  _Don't smother the child,_  he'd told himself sternly.  _He needs some responsibility if he's going to grow._

That hadn't kept him from being glued to a mirror to monitor the trip... nor had it kept him from feeling like his world had dropped out from under him when he saw the small body crumpled in the street.

Now Shinigami was hovering around the bed in Shibusen's infirmary, waiting for Mira Nygus to finish bandaging, distractedly thinking he might need to hire another doctor; Nygus was often serving double duty as the on-call nurse and Sid's weapon on missions. Finally she stepped away and faced the Reaper. "I treated him as best I could, but by the time I finished splinting the broken bones, there  _weren't_  any broken bones," she said, a note of reproach in her voice that not many would dare. Shinigami bobbed his head slightly, so she continued, "I was worried about blood loss, but he seems to be... mostly healed."

"That's my boy!" the death god flashed her a peace sign with a lightheartedness he didn't really feel. "Thank you, thank you. We'd best let him sleep."

Nygus gave him a look that said  _that's my line_  but only nodded instead. "Yes, Lord Death. Excuse me."

After she'd left, Shinigami dropped his jovial exterior and settled in next to the bed. "When you wake up," he addressed the unconscious form beneath the sheets, "we're going to have a very serious talk."

Thus the afternoon passed quietly and he knew Nygus must've passed along the word because the infirmary stayed empty. If he concentrated, he could feel the students going about their usual business, attending classes, talking in the hallways. In just one more year, Spirit's daughter would be enrolling in Shibusen, and that rascal BlackStar would also be old enough. He'd always thought that Kid would ask to attend (and he believed that being around people his own age would certainly help) but the boy had never actually voiced the request and now, waiting for him to awaken, Shinigami was doubtful about that wisdom.

The sun was setting when Kid finally stirred, wetting him lips before managing, "Nnh... Father?"

Shinigami dimmed the candles in the room with an absent gesture, so as to not overwhelm Kid's eyes when they opened. Watching as hands and feet flexed cautiously beneath the covers, testing for injury and finding only lingering aches from what had been severe breaks hours earlier... never had the Reaper been so thankful that shinigami bodies were so resilient. "How are you feeling? Do you remember what happened?"

"I was... I went to the arboretum," Kid recalled, slowly easing himself up into a sitting position as he noted his surroundings before turning his thoughts inward. "I liked it a lot. I've never seen so many butterflies all in one place before. After I left I was hungry, and I was going to get something to eat before coming home."

Shinigami waited for a moment, and finally prompted, "Then what?"

An uncomfortable pause, during which he couldn't decide if Kid was having trouble remembering or simply didn't want to relate. But under his father's unrelenting stare, he resumed reluctantly, "I-I saw something, it bothered me. The lines, the ones they paint-"

"The lines painted on the  _street_."

"Yes, those ones," the boy shifted, sheets rustling around as he folded his arms across his chest; the gesture was made in the attempt of self-comfort, not indifference. He licked his lips again, one nail digging into the seam of his shirtsleeve. He didn't look away from his father, but nor did he meet the god's unwavering stare. "The lines on the street, they weren't  _even_  you see, they weren't precisely parallel to each other, one sort of meandered and the whole thing looked  _awful_ -"

"Kid..." Shinigami began, but his son talked right over him, either not wanting to hear the inevitable reprimand or simply desperate to make him understand.

"So I thought, I should take the time to fix it, shouldn't I? It certainly had to be bothering other people as well, maybe they just didn't know what to do about it? I only needed to scrape some of the paint off, just to give it a clean edge-"

" _Kid_ -"

Talking faster now, the words tumbling over each other, sentences running together as they spilled loose with barely a breath in between. "I swear, Father, I didn't mean to be so long coming home but I just  _couldn't_  leave it looking like  _that_ , I'd never be able to stop remembering it and I didn't want to recall anything  _bad_  about my trip because I really appreciated you letting me go! So it's not really a big deal..."

" _You let yourself be **run over by a bus!**_ "

Silence.

Kid's protest had died mid-sentence, words lodging firmly in his throat. He couldn't remember if or when Shinigami had ever raised his voice at him before and the unfamiliarity of it left him shocked. "F-Father..." he stammered. "You're... are you angry with me?"

"I'm  _worried_  about you," the death god replied, not answering the boy's actual question. "I trusted you to act responsibly and you let this happen? It was  _paint_ , Kid. Paint! Was that worth putting your life in danger for something so  _trivial_?"

A tiny hitch of breath and Kid's yellow eyes brimmed before he could look down and away.  _But I was only trying to make things symmetrical... to make a good balance,_  he wanted to protest, but his voice would not obey him. He could feel the heavy weight of his father's gaze upon him; disappointed, critical, perhaps even  _repulsed_  by his inability to maintain the order of a  _single street_  let alone, one day, the whole world...

Shirt material began to shred under duress as Kid's grip on his arms tightened even more, silently continuing to berate himself. It wasn't until Shinigami fitted one blocky finger beneath his chin and made him look up that the mental censure stopped. "I know you have your ideas of what's most important," the Reaper said quietly. "But all I could do from here was  _watch_. I couldn't prevent it from happening, I couldn't come and get you. It was a  _bus_ , Kid. Between a god of death and a  _bus_ , the bus won because of some paint on the road. What am I going to have to watch if next time it's against a Kishin? Do you  _want_  me to have to watch you get killed?"

_I wouldn't,_  Kid opened his mouth to immediately deny but slowly closed it again, realizing for the first time that maybe... just maybe... his father had a justified worry. It scared him a little; it must've scared his father a lot. "I'm sorry," was all he could say instead, but it bore repetition. "I'm sorry, Father."

Shinigami released a long sigh, wishing there was some middle ground between parenting and punishing in Kid's worldview. "I worry," he repeated. "How can I not worry? Stop making that face, I'm not mad now. Let's go home and you can tell me about the butterflies."

Kid nodded mutely, slipping from the bed and following his father from the infirmary. Although it was only from Shibusen to Gallows Mansion, and neither of them said anything aloud, Kid stuck close to the god's side and Shinigami was grateful for it.


	14. Harvest

Kid was spending more time in the Death Room lately, silently observing the Shibusen students on their missions through his father's mirrors. Sometimes he would remark on the effectiveness of the weapon and meister pairs, and sometimes he would beat his hands against his head when he noticed something misaligned in their technique. On one occasion, he bluntly suggested that one pair be separated before they killed each other, let alone take the soul of a kishin egg. On another, he spent nine straight hours with a mouthful of nails, hammering away at the crooked crosses which dotted the sandy landscape. Shinigami decided that since the dead probably wouldn't mind their graves being neatened, it wasn't worth causing Kid the stress of pointing out that they fell askew all by themselves and would be back to their prior state before long anyway.

The Reaper didn't mind Kid's presence in the Death Room because he found he was able to spend less and less time at Gallows Mansion, and he missed Kid's company. Kid had yet to ask to be allowed on a mission of his own and though Shinigami silently respected the maturity with which he conducted himself, he was also selfishly withholding the offer he suspected his son wanted to hear. The plain truth of it was, he was reluctant and (he believed) not unrightfully so. But he couldn't keep Kid sequestered forever. He couldn't keep pretending he didn't see the boy's power growing steadily stronger. He was a shinigami; this was what they existed to do.

So when a murderer named Los Vargos began terrorizing the streets of Chicago, and there were no teams that weren't otherwise dispatched, he summoned Kid to listen in on the report made by an exhausted technician and his battered Weapon. "We're sorry, Lord Death," the male teen wheezed; he'd taken a blow to the side. "He caught us off guard. He nearly snapped Sofia in half! I don't think... we can go up against him again."

"Staaaay put!" the death god said, his playful tone still conveying a surprising amount of compassion. "You'll have help soon!"

Once the contact had ended, Kid clasped his hands neatly behind his back. "We mustn't have had enough information on Los Vargos," he said speculatively. "Adrian is a two-star meister. They must have been beaten in speed, not strength. That's Sofia's weakness, halberds just aren't meant for agility."

Shinigami glanced at him, noting the  _we_  pronoun and despite knowing where this conversation was heading, felt an instinctive surge of pride. "Sometimes~ it's that way," he agreed. "But Los Vargos has devoured twenty-three human souls." He noted Kid's shiver at the indivisible number even as he felt the tiny shimmer of anticipation across the surface of his soul.

"What would you suggest, Kid?"

Golden eyes turned up at him and held steadily, as few could manage in the face of Death Himself. "You should send someone who's fast enough to take the Kishin out," he stated.

"Hmm  _hmm~_?"

"I'm fast enough, Father."

There it was: that almost, not-quite request to be allowed to do what it was Shinigami asked of all his Shibusen students, their ages not so different from Kid's. The Reaper nodded, almost to himself, and placed his hand on his son's shoulder. "Yes, Kid. Yes, you are."

With the permission understood Kid turned smartly, loathe to waste any more time when there was a technician pair in danger, and headed for the exit of the Death Room. Shinigami raised his hand, the gesture halfway between waving and reaching, but forced himself to say nothing until after the mirror had let him depart and solidified again.

"Be careful, Kid."

 

* * *

Leaving the desert behind him, Kid flew swiftly northeast until the blocky outline of Chicago appeared on the horizon. He guided the skateboard nimbly between the skyscrapers, using his weight to shift Beelzebub's trajectory against the well-deserved moniker of the windy city. He cast out his senses, searching the city of millions until he locked onto the Shibusen pair and angled for their location, alighting on a rooftop and glancing around.

Adrian stepped out of the shadows, fists raised in a foolish show of bravado at the unfamiliar figure; he had expected Lord Death to send another team, not a complete stranger who looked no more than ten years old and bizarrely monochrome. "Who're you?"

"Put your hands down," Kid snorted. "Your ribs are broken, you'd never even land a good hit." He paused, then steepled his fingers together. "Although it looks like you have more broken on the left than the right. Would you quickly allow me to evenly distribute the-"

"Just you try it, freak!" the meister said through gritted teeth.

"Adrian, please," a dark haired girl came limping out of the darkness, her face as pale as the moon. Her movements were slow and pained; he recalled that Adrian had claimed she'd nearly been broken in half while in weapon form. To Kid she asked cautiously, "You're from Shibusen? We were expecting..."

" _This_  shrimp?" the male teenager interjected incredulously.

Kid ignored the outburst and nodded to Sofia. He'd made sure they were all right, and he knew his father would be sending another team to assist them back to Nevada before long; Beelzebub's mobility was what had brought him here far ahead of them. "I am. Which direction was Los Vargos headed?"

"South, towards the water. Wait!" she exclaimed as he coiled, ready to propel the skateboard into the air again. He paused, surprised by the fear in her voice.  _She was afraid of the Kishin_ , he realized. He could see it in her soul, and yet she tried to straighten her bruised body. "You can't face him alone!"

Kid understood then why his father was so protective of Shibusen and its students and faculty. They were only human, and yet they continued to put themselves in harm's way in order to help  _them_ ; death gods, the ones charged with keeping order. They overcame their fear, endured injury, and faced terrors that humans should have stayed blissfully unaware of. Sometimes they even died in the Reaper's service.

They were doing  _his_  job, Kid realized. They were doing what  _he_  should've been doing for his father all along. "Yes I can," he vowed as he lifted off, steel lacing his voice. "I won't fail."

 

* * *

Shinigami's soul had whispered and coiled around Kid as soon as he'd reentered the boundaries of Death City, summoning him to Shibusen even though he wanted to return home and change his clothes. But with effort (effort only his father deserved, and no other) he tried to push his responsibilities forefront and headed for the Death Room. That didn't stop his mouth from fixing into a frown as he plucked at a small rip in his sleeve. "Unforgivable," he grumbled as he walked. "Simply appalling... must have this mended at once... couldn't he have at least slit both sides..."

Yet as he passed through the mirror and saw Adrian and Sofia present, he knew why he'd been called straightaway. Kid slipped past them and took a spot beside the Reaper, murmuring an apology. "I'm sorry for keeping you waiting, Father."

" _Father?_ " the technician and weapon yelped as one. Adrian blanched bone-white as he remembered having called Kid a freak, even if it had been under duress. It wasn't helped by the speculative look that the boy gave him, like he could see right into his soul. Which, he realized with a sinking feeling, if this really  _was_  the son of the Grim Reaper (and by looking at their black and white similarities, he could believe it) that might not have been too far off the mark.

But Kid turned his attention away from the meister and instead produced a glowing crimson orb. "The soul of Los Vargos," he said solemnly, then he stepped forward and offered it to Sofia; he had to reach up to meet her hands. "Here. This is yours."

Uncertainty shone from her dark eyes as she accepted it, holding it gingerly as her gaze went first to her partner, and then to Shinigami. "A-Ah, thank you. Lord Death?" she questioned. She seemed hesitant to consume it, as though it were bad manners to do so in front of them.

"Enjoy it!" Shinigami gave her a giant thumbs up, and Kid retreated to his side once again. After the pair had excused themselves and left the Death Room, both looking a little dazed at this turn of events, Shinigami settled a blocky hand on Kid's shoulder. "You did very well, Kid."

"To make you proud, Father," was the answer and Kid upturned his face to the god with a smile. "I won't ever fail a mission that you give me."

It was an impossible promise and Shinigami knew that... perhaps, deep down, Kid might have known it as well. That didn't change the fact that he hoped Kid was able to keep his word, or change the pride that suffused his son at having reaped his first Kishin soul, the first of many.


	15. Rebirth

It wasn't unusual for citizens of Death City to leave little offerings on the doorstep of Gallows Mansion. Shinigami often wondered what it was which prompted them to do so, as they were almost always left anonymously so it wasn't as though he was expected to return a favour. Sometimes they contained baked treats (he loved homemade cookies), sometimes little signatures of their trade. More than once he'd found a simple thank you note, appreciating the gentle passing of a loved one. The last variety saddened him somewhat which he realized was a bit contradictory, but he couldn't have an entire population living inside the boundary of his soul and not grow attached to them.

Since he'd been spending more and more time at Shibusen, Kid had taken to picking up the gifted items, though he always dutifully informed his father when one had appeared. Tonight was no exception. "Oho!" Shinigami's reflection bounced in the mirror. "More cookies?"

Kid lifted the gingham (who still used gingham?) and peered inside. "No, Father. It's a fruit basket."

"Oh well~" the Reaper lifted his hands playfully, though the gesture managed to look contrite. "Have whatever you like out of it, Kid! I'm going to be here a good while longer tonight."

"Is everything all right?"

"Ab-so- _lutely_!" Shinigami reached through the mirror to pat his son on the head, then pulled back so the mirror reformed into its usual reflection. Kid's mouth puckered in a quick frown, both at the friendly appeasement and what he knew to be a transparent lie. Something was bothering his father, but he didn't know what - he just knew what he'd felt from the elder god wasn't  _nothing_.

But he obeyed his father by not questioning where it wasn't his place to, and carried the fruit basket to the kitchen to sort it.

 

* * *

For the first time in a while, Shinigami felt well and truly exhausted. The last twelve hours of coordination between the six branches worldwide and averting what he (had Shinigami been more inclined to bitterness) could have called an attempted  _coup d'etat_  in the European division... finally everything was once again in order. He would have to reassign some of his more trusted Death Scythes to oversee his interests on other continents, but for tonight he was just glad to leave the Death Room and go home.

Gallows Manor was dark as he slipped quietly through the mirror in the front hall, but it was late and Kid had no doubt gone to bed hours prior. A light glowing in the kitchen caught his attention and he looked in, then did a double take. A few dishes were still sitting on the counter, unwashed and forgotten. Although in a normal house it may have been a regular domestic sight, for Shinigami there couldn't have been a clearer sign that something was amiss. Thoughts of a peaceful evening shattered, he ascended the stairs, already casting out his senses for his son's soul.

Kid's room was dark but against the uncharacteristically rumpled sheets, two glassy golden eyes peered out at him. "F-Father," Kid started, but was interrupted by a wet cough that shook his whole body, whistling in and out with each gasp. It was so strange, so foreign, that he felt himself rooted to the spot until another sickly wheeze jolted him forward.

"What's wrong?" Shinigami demanded, lifting him into a sitting position. There had never been much bulk to him, but Kid seemed ready to snap in half at any moment and the god kept his hands soft. "Tell me, Kid."

Kid shook his head, though the motion made his vision swim even more. He wasn't even sure himself... he could clearly recall eating dinner at the long dining room in his usual place (the first spot to the right of the table head) and choosing dessert from the fruit basket delivered earlier. He'd been about to clean up afterwards when he'd felt lightheaded and left the kitchen to get some air. Unfortunately the brisk night breeze had only made him feel worse, and Kid had stumbled up the stairs to his room, only barely making it to the edge of the bed before promptly blacking out.

"Why didn't you call me?" his father was asking him. Kid wanted to form a coherent sentence but the task seemed too monumental.

_But why didn't I notice?_  was the question the death god wanted an answer to most.

As distressed as his physical body was, Shinigami could see that his son's soul was in worse condition. Weak flickers of shadow danced across its surface to prevent the usual cerulean glow from escaping, and it was streaked through with stains of red.  _Poison?_  The thought left him aghast. To imagine that somehow his home had been breached - bad enough inside his  _city_  and  _soul_  but if someone had gotten to Kid inside Gallows itself - but  _how?_  It should have been impossible, it wasn't like they could waltz up to the front door...

A whispered curse in the language of death itself, and Shinigami tucked Kid snugly into his side and streaked back downstairs. With one hand he tore the kitchen apart until he found the contents of the gift basket from earlier. Green apples, dark nectarines... and pomegranates, ripened a deep red.

_Oh no._  The Reaper shook Kid gently, holding the gingham up for his son to see. "Kid, did you eat the pomegranates in the basket? The red fruit?"

Kid's head lolled to one side as he tried to focus on the question and visual cue, but he nodded laboriously. He wanted to say something else, but darkness refused to wait any longer and swallowed him again.

 

* * *

Shinigami sat brooding in the study's over-sized armchair, big enough to hold even his abnormal frame.  _This is my fault,_  he thought darkly, his countenance more suited to his persona of centuries past than recent years.  _How did I **not**  notice?_

It wasn't just his inattention which plagued him with guilt in the early morning hours. Kid was the son crafted from his own soul and certain things were supposed to be  _inherent_  to him: the mastery of souls, the skill to wield any Weapon if chosen, the tongue of languages both living and dead as they pertained to his duties. Kid was born with all these things  _because_  he was a death god, and even with the inexperience of youth he had not questioned knowing these things before.

But Shinigami also knew which knowledges were missing, intentionally kept from him. It was the reason Kid had not understood why hair dye wouldn't cover his Sanzu lines, nor understood their true purpose. (How could he tell him  _that_ , when Kid already worried for him?) Why he believed he'd named Beelzebub himself and not understood that the creature came with its name already old as ages...

Or why a fruit had nearly killed him.

_Because he didn't know any better,_  Shinigami thought unhappily.  _Because my choices made it impossible for him to know any better._

He wanted to protect his son. It should have been simple. He didn't know what to do when  _he_  was the one putting Kid at risk.

Kid's fever broke around dawn, and spots of colour returned to his cheeks as his body purged the last traces of the fruit's effects. He woke and looked around dazedly, realizing that he was still in his father's secure hold but making no move to leave it. "What... happened?"

"You ate something that didn't agree with you," Shinigami answered. "The pomegranate has from the beginning of time represented eternal  _life_  and so when you ate it, you got sick."

"Oh," Kid said softly. It seemed like such a crucial thing for him to know that he automatically felt as though he'd disappointed the elder. "I'm sorry, Father. I didn't know... they were bad for me."

_I should tell you about everything,_  the death god thought, murmuring reassurances as Kid began to doze off again. It wasn't fair to let this ignorance continue to put Kid in danger, and yet...  _I can't, not yet. One day, forgive me this necessary evil._

Because he still believed it was the lesser of the two.


	16. Hindrance

Shinigami knew it was going to be a bad day when, on one of his habitual mirror checks into the should-have-been silent halls of Gallows Manor, he discovered Kid polishing the stairwell banister. Although the boy was dressed in his pajamas, they weren't rumpled meaning he hadn't actually slept yet. The polishing cloth buffed vigorously, but Kid's golden eyes were wide and slightly unfocused, his mouth moving in a silent mantra.

_Not again_ , the death god thought, and left the Death Room behind to appear through the hallway mirror silently. Kid didn't even look up as he approached, only whipped the cloth off one wooden baluster and onto the next without slowing. Only when Shinigami closed one of his enormous hands over both of Kid's and gently pried the polish from his fingers did his presence seem to register.

"Father?" Kid stammered; frantic, frightened, wretched. "Please, I have to finish the-"

"I'll take care of it," Shinigami said, knowing full well it wouldn't happen. If dealing with these  _moods_  of his son's had taught him anything, it was that he had to keep Kid's mind rooted firmly on whatever was in front of him, or he'd become trapped in an endless loop of imagined tasks until nothing could shake him loose from the cycle.

Kid's breath hitched, but he allowed his father to guide him downstairs to the kitchen. The god only left for a moment, just to fetch a blanket to put around Kid, but when he came back he found the boy pulling all the jars out of the spice rack, thin shoulders slumped with anguish as he sorted them.

"Kid. It's  _okay_. They're fine."

"They're  _not_  fine!" Fingers gripped the glass containers tightly, threatening to crack them. "They're  _uneven_ , they all have different amounts, the labels are  _crooked_ -" The bottles clattered across the counter top in twos and threes as his breath came in short, shallow bursts. "I-I can't believe I've let our house get in such a state, I-I'm sorry Father..."

Shinigami put one hand on either side of Kid's head, blocking out all the boy's peripheral vision so he could look nowhere else but right in front of him. The irregular edges of the Reaper's form softened from their hard lines as he willed his shroud to curl around both of them; safe, protective. "Honestly," he said. "You can be such a handful."

The boy resisted the cloth embrace for only a brief moment, then surrendered to it as his father's voice echoed across the surface of the soul.  _Gallows is sound. The stairs are all right. The spice rack is all right. This is your haven. Everything here is fine, and settled, and balanced. Nothing is wrong. **Nothing**  is wrong._

And Kid was finally able to believe it, for tonight.

 

* * *

Spirit was waiting for him at Shibusen the next morning when the Reaper returned to the Death Room. "Everything okay?" he asked, having formed a number of ideas as to what might've occurred overnight to cause his wielder to leave like that.

"Yes. Well," Shinigami amended the automatic reply. "... maybe."

"Maybe?"

" _Tea~_ , Spirit?" The death god pulled a china tea set from  _somewhere_  and not so gently plopped Spirit in front of the low wooden table. The redhead let himself be seated that way because he recognized a reluctant show of avoidance when he saw one. He offered to pour the tea but Shinigami waved him off, and before long the pair of them sat with a cup each, silent across from each other. Spirit hadn't had much inclination to drink tea since his wife had left, and his preferred libation was something much stronger.

So it was only after the tea had gone cold and Spirit had still only managed to drink half of it, when Shinigami finally stirred and said, "Kid had another bad night."

The scythe thought about putting the tea cup on the table, but then thought better of it; something in his hands would feel better. "Bad how? Is he all right?"

"Mm- _hmm~_ ," the god acknowledged absently. "I got him back to sleep eventually. But..." One large finger bobbed its way to the base of the mask.

"But?"

Shinigami seemed to deflate, folding in on himself. "This time it was the railing on the stairs. And the spice rack."

Spirit refrained from shaking his head, although it certainly would have been an appropriate reaction. He understood why the Reaper was subdued about it. What in the world could have been so wrong about a  _staircase_  to set Death the Kid into one of his...  _there isn't even a proper adjective for that,_  he thought glumly.  _And a **spice rack?**  What's next?_

"And the spacing of the tiles in the bathroom."

_Oh. That's what's next._

"Sir," the redhead said cautiously. "I know the situation's a little complicated, but shouldn't you consider having Kid talk to someone about this? Not that," he added hurriedly, "he can't talk to  _you_ , but it's getting... I mean, it just  _seems_  like maybe this is becoming-"

"Worse."

Spirit choked a little at the admission he hadn't been expecting, and raised the tea to his mouth to cover it. The liquid inside was cold and unpleasant, but he swallowed some anyway and repeated the god's earlier words. "Well. Maybe."

Shinigami carefully set his cup down, giving the action more attention than it deserved. "I'm afraid I'm partly to blame for that, Spirit." Swiftly anticipating the protest his Weapon was voicing, he shook his head and held up a hand and idly noting that Spirit flinched. (Perhaps he'd been using the shinigami chop too often lately.)

"I haven't been telling him that his-"  _Fixation, obsession, addiction, mania._  "-compulsions aren't... that he doesn't need to do those things. I've always let him. I've never told him not to."

Spirit looked dubiously across the table at the unreadable mask. "Yeah, but..." he started, but trailed off. He understood the justification, because he did the same thing with Maka. Whenever his daughter acted out on her unhappiness over her mother's absence, he told himself he'd screwed up, again. It didn't matter if he'd  _actually_  done something wrong or not (that day), it was important for Maka to be blameless in it.

"It'll work out," he said finally, wishing he had something more profound to offer.

Shinigami allowed himself a faint sigh, but then clapped Spirit energetically on the back, almost driving the man's face into the table. " _Of_ ~ course! This won't be how he defines himself permanently. He's a good boy... I shouldn't doubt him."

After Spirit had left, and he'd cleaned up the tea and checked on his still-sleeping son in the mirror, Shinigami felt better for talking it out with another father. He would fight as many of these inexplicable battles against the strange compunctions of Kid's mind as it took. One night, one picture frame, one uneven candle at a time until he felt his son was in control of it, and safe. But he would be careful never to blame Kid for it, and never to tell him that it was wrong or abnormal.

That would be Shinigami's burden to carry, and he chose it gladly.


End file.
